


out of the shadows (the morning is breaking)

by Rhovanel



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, spoilers for the Atlantis ending, thanks for nothing Ubisoft, which I also fixed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: Brasidas lives. He fights, and he struggles, and he yearns, but he lives.





	out of the shadows (the morning is breaking)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



It’s his damn leg that saves him, in the end. 

Brasidas can feel it throbbing with every step he takes, with every leap and lunge as he spins around the battlefield at Amphipolis. He tries to ignore it as best he can, fighting around the pain. He knows in his gut that it will not be the same - he had told Kassandra as much, when she had joined him on the battlements - but he had hoped that in the thick of the battle, with the blood singing in his veins and surging in his ears, that his body would know how to compensate.

He staggers slightly as he dodges a blow. Unstable footing is a death sentence on the battlefield: you must be able to keep your eyes on your sword and not on the ground, to be certain that every step will land sure and true. He winces as he regains his stance, raising his arm to block a blow with his shield and swinging his other around to deliver a killing strike.

He glances behind him to where Kassandra fights, the fury and joy of the fight written across her face. She nods at him as she sends a soldier flying with a powerful kick, then turns her back to meet the soldier behind her. He feels humbled by the trust she places in him, confident that she does not need to watch him to be sure that he is there. He swallows his doubt (if he cannot trust his own sure footing, how can he hope to be hers) and turns his gaze back to the battlefield.

It is easy, then, to put himself directly in Deimos’s path.

Deimos stalks across the battlefield like a ship cresting through a smooth sea, carving a line through Athenians and Spartans alike. He fights like it is second nature, as though he can see each blow coming before his assailant has even raised an arm.

He fights like a god.

“You want war?” he bellows, and Brasidas raises his shield and tightens his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

Deimos is strong, and he is fast, and Brasidas is already injured and already tired. He staggers a little with every step, his right leg threatening to give out with each clench of his muscles. He feels a slash across his right forearm and he instinctively reaches down to grasp it. 

It’s enough for Deimos to gain the upper hand.

Brasidas drops his spear as Deimos sends him reeling with a powerful backhand. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him kick it into his hand, and he knows with a powerful certainty that his death is only seconds away.

 _If death is to take me_ , Brasidas thinks, _then let it be at the hands of the god of war._

Yet the gods, it seems, have something else in mind. As he instinctively takes a step backward, his right leg gives way and he crashes awkwardly to the ground, watching as Deimos swings into empty air, lurching slightly with surprise. That moment of pause is all it takes, and before Brasidas can take a breath, Kassandra comes leaping over the top of him, screaming with rage, her twin daggers gleaming in her hands.

Deimos looks at her with vicious amusement. “You take everything so personally,” he smirks, but his face turns to shock as an arrow hits his back, and he slumps to the ground.

Brasidas can vaguely see Kleon disappearing into the distance. Kassandra takes a step towards him, then turns to look back over her shoulder, anxiety on her face.

“Go,” Brasidas croaks, waving a hand at her. “Go now, before you lose him.”

Kassandra nods briefly before taking off at a run.

Brasidas tries to push himself up into a sitting position, but the gash on his arm is throbbing and his head feels weak, and he can see blackness creeping at the edge of his vision.

The last thing he sees before the darkness takes him is Kassandra standing on the horizon, her armour glinting with gold, her skin shining with bronze.

She looks like a god.

**********

When Brasidas opens his eyes again, he’s lying on a pallet under a small canopy. He pushes himself up on one arm, wincing with pain at the throbbing in his arm and the deep ache in his thigh. The battlefield is hushed: Spartan soldiers are milling around quietly, bandaging their wounds, removing fallen soldiers from the dusty, dirty ground.

“Glad to see the gods decided to spare you another day,” a voice says to his left, and he looks up to see Clearidas, his second-in-command.

“Ah, so you do not want a promotion?” he smiles.

Clearidas waves his arm at the battlefield. “I could not have led our troops to such a victory.”

“It was a victory, then,” he says, looking back at the battlefield. 

“The Athenians have taken heavy losses. Their army is scattered, and their leader is dead.”

“Kleon is dead?”

“The Eagle-Bearer,” Clearidas says, answering the unasked question in Brasidas’s eyes.

“And what of Deimos?”

“The Athenians dragged him from the battlefield. I do not know if he lives.”

Brasidas sighs, and slowly staggers to his feet. Clearidas is at his side in an instant. 

“You should be resting. Your leg-”

“Fuck my leg,” Brasidas says. “If Deimos still lives, there is still work to be done.”

Clearidas sighs. “She left you a message,” he says. “She has gone to speak to Myrrine, and she told you that you should rest and heal, and she will see you in Sparta.”

Brasidas pauses. “Come, Clearidas,” he says, “What did she really say?”

“She said…” Clearidas looks uncomfortable. “Tell the stubborn fool that if he won’t rest I will kick him off the top of Mount Taygetos myself.”

He laughs. “That sounds like Kassandra.” 

“She feared for you,” Clearidas continues. “She sat by your side until the healer assured her that you would live. Even then, she told the healer that she knew a ‘real doctor’, and would not hesitate to bring him here if she…thought anything was amiss.”

“Threatening the healer,” Brasidas says with a shake of his head. “That also sounds like Kassandra.”

“And the first part?” Clearidas says, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Keeping vigil at your bedside?” 

Brasidas pauses. That does not sound like Kassandra - not exactly. She is always moving, always rushing headlong into the next job or the next target, impulsive and impatient and stubbornly single-minded. The thought that she paused long enough to be sure of his survival makes his heart clench in his chest, caught in a knot of surprise and hope and warm affection that he does not have time to untangle. 

“Well,” he replies with a grin. “Were you not also by my bedside when I woke? Is that not what a Spartan hero deserves?”

Clearidas sighs, shaking his head with a smile. “Fine,” he says. “What now?”

Brasidas looks across to the southwest. “I have a mountain to be kicked off,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

**********

When Brasidas arrives at the little house in Sparta some weeks later, it is empty. But the signs of occupation are everywhere: the remnants of a meal on the table, a rug thrown over a chair, a quiver of arrows leaning against the wall.

One of Kassandra’s daggers is lying on the table, and Brasidas picks it up, running his fingers around the worn hilt. He remembers the day they met, in the burning warehouse in Lechaion. How it easy it had been to fight alongside her, how instinctively they had fallen into sync, as though they had been fighting together for years. But more than anything, he remembers the look on her face when he had offered his help: surprise mixed with disbelief, hope dawning in her eyes like the first rays of sun after a long, cold night. 

He hears voices drifting through the windows, interrupting his reverie, and he places the dagger back onto the table and flings open the door, a smile on his face.

The smile falls as he finds himself face to face with Deimos.

There is a moment in which the two of them simply regard one another. Brasidas can feel the rage rising in his chest, his fingers and toes curling with hot anger. With a roar, he lunges towards him and grabs him around the neck.

“Brasidas!” he hears Kassandra shout. Deimos reaches up to push at his arms, snarling at him. He makes a choking noise as Brasidas tightens his grip, but before he can retaliate, firm hands come between them to prise the two of them apart. 

“He tried to kill me!” he yells, as Kassandra pushes him backwards. “Twice!”

“Not well enough, it seems, Spartan,” Deimos spits.

“Would you like to try again?” he asks, raising his arms and pushing against where Kassandra’s hands lie against his chest.

“Enough!” Kassandra shouts. “ _Maláka_ …”

“What,” Brasidas asks, breathing heavily, “is Deimos doing here?”

“This is Alexios,” Myrrine says, placing her hand on the man’s shoulder. “He is free of the Cult.”

Brasidas looks at Kassandra. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“As I can be,” she says quietly.

“But…” Brasidas swallows a hot ball of rage and frustration. “After everything he did to you? To us?”

“He is my brother,” Kassandra replies, a note of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

 _And what am I_ , Brasidas thinks before he can stop himself. “I need a moment,” he says, turning and walking away down the path. 

His feet lead him to the large statute of Leonidas. The great hero of Sparta looms over the city, tall and foreboding. His eyes stare unseeingly into the distance, looking both to past glories and to future victories.

He looks like a god.

The same blood flows through Kassandra’s veins - and Alexios’s too, he supposes. He feels small, suddenly, like a mortal meddling in the affairs of larger beings that he cannot hope to understand. He remembers what he promised Kassandra, on that first day in Lechaion: that she would find her way home, if she fought for it. He will not be cruel enough to ruin that promise now.

(But his heart churns with anger and betrayal and a sick sense of jealousy. He looks back at the statue, and he thinks that no one understands cruelty quite like the gods.)

“Going to attack him too?” Kassandra says, nodding at the statue as she comes to stand alongside him. “I think this foe might be a little out of your league.”

Brasidas sighs. “Kassandra,” he begins, but she holds up a hand to silence him.

“I am sorry, Brasidas,” she says. “I should have warned you.”

“No, I should apologise,” he replies. “I know…I know that a family and a home are all you have ever fought for. This is your victory, and I am sorry for ruining it.”

“Ruining it?” Kassandra repeats. “Brasidas, I have been wanting to hit Alexios for days, but if I so much as raise my voice at him, Myrrine will have my head.”

Brasidas snorts. “Is that not what siblings are supposed to do?”

Kassandra smiles sadly. “I would not know,” she says. 

“But you will,” Brasidas replies. “You will now.”

“I suppose so,” Kassandra says.

“Just…do not expect me to greet him with open arms. He did try to kill me, after all.”

“I would not expect anything less,” she says with a smile. “Come on. I will introduce you to my family - properly, this time.”

They begin to walk back up to the house, but Kassandra stops him with a hand on his arm.

“You are still limping,” she says with a frown.

Brasidas glances down at his leg. “Yes,” he says. “I think my days of leading armies into battles are over.”

Kassandra looks stricken. “Brasidas, I-”

“It is not your fault,” he interrupts. “I told you, on the day we first met, that I was in the fight with you. And I was happy to be there.”

Kassandra pauses for a moment, a strange expression on her face, then she laughs with a shake of her head. “Gods, Brasidas, I am glad to see you,” she says.

“Even if you are about to throw me off Mount Taygetos?” he smiles.

“Even then,” she says. “But first, I am going to throw you to my family.” She grimaces. “That might be worse.”

Brasidas laughs as they walk back up to the house, where Myrrine, Nikolaos and Alexios are talking. Myrrine is gesticulating at Alexios, who crosses his arms with a sullen expression on his face.

“Everyone,” Kassandra says, a tiny hint of nervousness in her voice. “This is Brasidas.” She gestures at her family. “Myrrine, you know.”

“It is good to see you again, Brasidas,” Myrrine says, reaching out to take his hands in her own. 

“And you,” he says.

“You have met my father, I think?” 

“Briefly,” Brasidas says, clasping his arm. “It is always an honour to speak to the Wolf of Sparta.” 

“Last I saw you, you were only a young man,” Nikolaos says. “But you have you grown into a great commander.”

“Ah, I do not think I will be commanding armies for much longer,” Brasidas says, gesturing at his leg.

“Once a great soldier, always a great soldier,” Nikolaos replies. “And as I was telling Alexios just now, there is more to greatness than simply pure strength.”

Alexios scoffs quietly.

“And this,” Kassandra says with a sigh, “is my brother. Alexios.”

The two men stare at one another, sizing each other up. Alexios looks better than he had the last time they had come face to face: his eyes are not as red, and his face is not as haggard. 

“I am going to tell you something I told your sister, once.” Brasidas says. “Those of good character will forgive, and should be forgiven.”

He holds out his arm, and after a pause, Alexios grasps his forearm. Brasidas pulls him close to speak softly into his ear.

“But if you so much as think about returning to the Cult, I will gut you where you stand. Do not doubt it.”

Stepping back, he fixes Alexios with his most genial smile. Kassandra snorts, then tries to hastily turn it into a cough when Myrrine glares at her.

Alexios breaks into a smile. “I like this one,” he says, clapping Brasidas on the shoulder. He winces as the pain shoots down into his still-healing forearm.

“Let’s go inside,” Myrrine says. “Stentor will be here soon.”

Brasidas knows of Stentor - everyone in Sparta knows the Wolf’s stern, furious son - but they have never met. He raises his eyebrows at Kassandra.

“You have quite the family,” he says, as he follows her inside.

“Yes,” she says, quiet pride on her face. “Yes, I do.”

They eat and drink and talk until they’re all warm and flushed with drink. Brasidas watches Kassandra, her face shining, a tiny hint of disbelief in her eyes as though she cannot quite believe what lies in front of her. They have all been through so much, all five of them, and Brasidas feels suddenly out of place, separate from the shared narrative of loss and love that ties them together. 

(He had promised her home, and she has found it. He has nothing to offer her now.)

“I shall take my leave,” he says, getting to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You are welcome here any time,” Myrrine smiles. “You know you are also are part of this family, Brasidas.”

Brasidas glances at where Alexios and Stentor are drunkenly wrestling with one another. “I think you have enough troublesome sons,” he replies. 

Myrinne laughs. “Troublesome?” she says. “Yet somehow I think they will cause me less grief than my daughter.” 

Brasidas chuckles. “You make a fair point,” he says.

Kassandra groans, ushering him out of the house. 

“What will you do now?” he asks, as they walk slowly down the path.

“Hunt down the Cult,” Kassandra says, her eyes alight. “They attacked my family, and nearly destroyed it for good. Blood will have blood.”

She blazes with resolve, her face set with grim determination. 

“I wish you the best of luck,” he says gently.

She turns to look at him. “I cannot ask you to come with me,” she says. “I…enough has happened to you already.”

She means his leg. He knows he will only slow her down, he knows he is a hindrance, but it hurts all the same. He feels useless and old, but he swallows his shame and fixes a smile on his face. 

“There are other ways I can help,” he says. “I know how to find information.”

“Yes, I remember how we met - you sneaking around that warehouse in Lechaion,” she says, getting to her feet with a smile. “I will send for you if I need you. Don’t make me hunt you down, too.”

“Never,” Brasidas says. He means to say it as a joke, but it comes out soft and warm and horribly, terribly fond. He shifts awkwardly on his bad leg. 

Kassandra just nods and returns to the house, closing the door behind her.

It is a victory, he tells himself. She fought for home and for family and for Sparta, and won all three. 

But from the other end of the sword, a victory is a defeat, and he cannot shake the sinking feeling that this sword is pointed at his neck. 

**********

Brasidas stays in Sparta. 

He works with his soldiers, continuing to oversee their training and to run their drills. He ignores the way their eyes drift to his leg sometimes, when he limps slightly during a manoeuvre or stumbles on a lunge. 

He advises Archidamos on troop movement and placement, offering suggestions on how to strengthen the Boetian border against the constant Athenian threat. He ignores the tight, sick feeling in his stomach when he watches Clearidas lead his soldiers out of the city, that slither of jealously curling through his gut. 

And he keeps his ears open to movements of the Cult. He knows how to move quietly and unseen, how a quiet word or a silent threat can open mouths where violence will only close them forever. It is less easy, perhaps, now that he is celebrated as the hero of Amphipolis. But he gathers hints and rumours and whispers in the shadows, and he leaves them at the ports where he knows the Adrestia will arrive eventually.

The messages return to him in Sparta: another cultist killed, another one revealed, another head of the snake cut off for good. Kassandra moves with that single-minded drive he knows so well: swift and brutal and without a hint of hesitation.

She is the Eagle-Bearer, destined to soar to heights Brasidas will never see. It is job is to help her soar, not to tie her to the ground. He will not be the shackle around her ankle, or the uneven ground beneath her feet.

Yet his heart still leaps in his chest every time he sees a bird in the sky, hoping for a glimpse of the broad wingspan of an eagle. As he squints against the sun, shielding his eyes from its glare, he thinks of the story of Icarus - the story of a young man too confident in his own exceptionalism, caught up in the belief he could rise above his station and touch the gods. He closes his eyes and lets the sun wash over his face, and he tells himself that it is enough to feel its warmth from a distance. It is hubris to wish for more.

But when she sends an urgent request for him to meet her in Athens, gods help him if he doesn’t drop everything and leave at once. 

**********

“When you said you needed my help, this is not quite what I had expected.”

They’re standing outside of a large house in Athens. Laughter and music drifts into the street, and he can see servants rolling casks of wine into the back of the kitchen.

Brasidas shakes his head. “The great Eagle-Bearer, bane of the Cult and the slayer of epic beasts, afraid of a party?”

Kassandra glares at him. “I am not afraid! I am just…” She sighs. “The life of a _misthios_ is the work - it is the hunt, the jobs, and I like it. I am…less fond of this.”

“And I am not fond of Athenians,” Brasidas says.

“I would not be alive if it were not for these men,” Kassandra replies.

“I know that,” Brasidas says. “So why do you hesitate?”

“They no longer see me as simply a _misthios_ ,” she says. “But I am not sure I know how to be anything else.” 

Brasidas feels the knot in his chest tighten. He looks at Kassandra and sees anything but a _misthios_ \- he sees a warrior, and a Spartan, and, perhaps, a friend.

(He sees something else too, something full of potential and hope and desperate longing that he pushes firmly to the back of his mind.)

“Come now, Kassandra,” he says. “What would a _misthios_ do when faced with such an obstacle?”

Kassandra smiles. “Finish the job,” she says, with a shake of her head.

“Then let us finish it,” he says, holding out his arm. 

As soon as they enter, a man with long blonde hair separates himself from the group and starts to make his way across the room. 

“Alkibiades,” Kassandra whispers. “Brace yourself.” 

Alkibiades approaches with a sly grin on his face. “Kassandra! It is always a pleasure,” he says, his voice dropping on the last word. “And you have brought a companion?”

“This is Brasidas,” she says. Brasidas reaches out and shakes his hand. Alkibiades gives a small breathy sigh.

“Practically as strong as Kassandra!” he says. “You two must have quite the fun in the bedroom: the athleticism, the stamina-”

“Alkibiades,” Kassandra hisses. “Brasidas and I are friends.”

“And am I not also your friend?” he says with a slight leer. “Shall we all be…friendly together?”

“No,” Brasidas snaps, more forcefully than he had intended. Kassandra blinks at him with slight surprise.

Alkibiades laughs. “Such a shame,” he smiles. “I do love the feel of a beard against my-” 

“Is that Aristophanes?” Kassandra says hurriedly, gripping Alkibiades by the arm and marching him across the other side of the room. Alkibiades looks back over his shoulder to throw him a lewd wink. Brasidas self-consciously runs a hand through his beard.

“Ah, I see you have met our esteemed statesman,” a voice says, and he turns to see a smiling man to his left.

“Is that what he is?” he asks.

“He is brilliant strategist,” the man replies. “If a little focused on the…forward push, perhaps.”

“Athenians,” Brasidas snorts. 

“And you are the famed Spartan commander,” the man replies. “I have heard of you.”

Brasidas feels a prickle of unease on the back of his neck. “Who would you be?” he asks.

“Ah, now that is a question!” the man smiles. “Do we not all have many guises? Take Alkibiades, for example. He is a statesman, yes. He is a diplomat, when he wants to be. He is an incorrigible flirt, almost always. And for many in the city, he is a pinnacle of justice. Which of these is the true Alkibiades?”

Brasidas narrows his eyes. “You would be Sokrates, I presume. Kassandra has spoken of you.”

Sokrates beams at him. “And who is Sokrates?”

“An annoying little shit,” Kassandra says, coming up to stand next to Brasidas.

“Now, Kassandra,” Sokrates says. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Is that what we are?” Kassandra laughs, but her smile is warm and genuine. “I thought you were a thorn in my side.”

“Perhaps I am also that,” Sokrates replies, spreading his arms. “Perhaps that is one face I show to the world.” 

Brasidas glances at Kassandra, who rolls her eyes.

“Do you disagree?” Sokrates continues. “Do you think we are but one thing?”

“One thing can have many faces,” Brasidas says. “If it wears a mask.”

“Brasidas, do not debate him,” Kassandra mutters. “He will never stop.”

Sokrates looks delighted. “Ah, but the face beneath the mask is always the same?”

“The mask hides the face. It is a disguise.” 

“Or is the face the disguise for the mask?”

Brasidas pauses for a moment. “Are you saying that the mask is the truer identity?”

“Take the Cult of Kosmos,” Sokrates replies. “Is it the mask that tells us more, or must we look to the person who lies beneath?”

“I suppose neither is more true than the other,” Brasidas says. “The mask and the face are equally corrupt.”

“I must know both to hunt them down,” Kassandra interjects.

“So both faces are one and the same? The caretaker is the Cultist; the mother is the murderer?”

“Yes,” Kassandra says firmly.

“Would the child think that?”

Kassandra glares at him. “Careful, Sokrates,” she says. “Anyone would think you were trying to protect the Cult.”

Sokrates shrugs innocently. “I am simply proving a point,” he says. “We judge a person based on the face they point to the world, but there is always another.”

“I think this face needs to be pointed in the direction of a drink,” Kassandra says. “I have had enough of riddles.”

“If you do not like that riddle, let me ask you another,” Sokrates says. “Brasidas: what is a shield without a sword?”

Brasidas rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “A shield without a sword is an impasse. It will let you stand your ground for a time, but you cannot make the progress you need to turn your enemy back.”

“A good answer,” Sokrates replies. “Now, Kassandra: what is a sword without a shield?”

“I fight with twin daggers,” Kassandra says with a shrug.

Sokrates shakes his head. “Humour me.”

Kassandra sighs. “A sword without a shield is a gamble. You improve your speed at the cost of greater injury.”

“Another good answer! And why would we want to fight with both?”

Kassandra and Brasidas look at one another. “Each compensates for the other’s weakness,” Brasidas says. 

“Exactly!” Sokrates replies.

“Sokrates,” Kassandra says, “what is the point of this military lesson?”

“To prove my point,” he replies. “Nothing in this life is ever just one thing - not the bad things, but most certainly not the best.” He reaches out and claps them both on the shoulder. “The night is young, my friends,” he says. “Go and enjoy yourselves!” 

Brasidas watches him walk away. “Is he always like that?”

“I need a drink,” Kassandra mutters. She walks across to the centre table and collects a kylix of wine, taking a long sip before passing the shallow dish to Brasidas. “I did try to warn you.”

“Is this why you wanted me here?” Brasidas laughs. “To protect you from the great philosopher?”

“Actually,” Kassandra begins, as Brasidas takes a sip of the wine. “I did not ask you here just to attend this party.”

“No?” Brasidas says.

“I have a job I need your help with.”

Brasidas places the kylix carefully on the table. “The Cult?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “No, I have been tasked with collecting four artifacts.”

Brasidas raises an eyebrow. “And how is this more important than the Cult?”

“These are no ordinary artifacts,” Kassandra begins, her eyes lighting up. “They are guarded by the legendary monsters of old.”

“What kind of legendary monsters?” Brasidas asks. 

“Well,” Kassandra says. “I thought we might start with the Cyclops.” 

“Kassandra,” Brasidas says. “You cannot be serious.” 

She smiles. “Come, Brasidas,” she says. “Have I ever lied to you?”

She hasn’t, he knows. She is straight-talking and blunt, often to her own detriment. 

“I understand if you do not want to come,” she says, glancing at his leg. “I have already taken too much from you."

“It was given freely,” he says.

“Nothing is given freely,” she says. “That is the law of the _misthios_.”

“Come, Kassandra,” he smiles. “This is no job for a _misthios_ \- it is a quest for a legendary warrior! Perhaps that is another one of your faces.”

Kassandra runs a hand through her hair. “I should never have introduced you to Sokrates.”

“I like him,” Brasidas says. “He gives a new perspective on old problems.”

“Fine,” she says. “But if I am no longer a lone _misthios_ , then I believe I need a companion.”

Her face reminds him of that first day by the docks, when he first promised her Sparta: hope dawning across a sea of doubt, like the first rays of sun across the expanse of the ocean. 

“Of course,” he replies. “Am I not your shield?”

He winks at her and she laughs, grumbling something about philosophers. 

He does not have the courage to tell her that he means every word. 

**********

The Cyclops is a brute: massive, ugly, but incredibly slow.

“We need to hit the eye,” Kassandra says, nocking an arrow in her bow.

Brasidas nods. “I’ll distract him. He only has the one - let’s keep it fixed on me.”

The Cyclops roars as Kassandra hits him straight in the eye. She jumps to the left, and Brasidas runs directly at his legs with a shout, slashing at his knees. With every arrow from Kassandra the Cyclops turns in her direction, but Brasidas makes sure he is always there to block his path, attracting his attention so Kassandra can move off to the side.

They continue this dance for some time - Kassandra darting around the cavern as fast as the arrows she looses from her bow, Brasidas steadily attacking the Cyclops from below. He is beginning to think that they might have worn the monster down when it starts beating its club on the stony ground, causing rocks to fall from above.

He looks over to the other side of the cavern where Kassandra is lining up a shot, and his heart catches in his chest as he sees the ceiling begin to crumble above her.

“Kassandra!” he calls. He dodges a blow from the club, then vaults over a fallen rock and skids across the ground to slide into her. As they crash to the ground, he grabs her around the waist to pull her closer, raising his shield above them. Her cheek is warm where it is pressed against his own.

When the rocks stop falling, Kassandra slides out from under the shield and lets one final arrow fly, straight into the Cyclops’s eye. It crashes awkwardly to the ground with a heavy thud. 

Brasidas pulls himself to his feet slowly. His leg is screaming at him, and his shoulder aches where he’d taken the weight of the rocks. But adrenaline is pumping through his veins, and his heart is beating in his chest, and he feels so, so alive.

He watches as Kassandra pulls something from the body of the Cyclops, something round and gold that shines brightly when she touches it. She turns to look at him, triumph in her eyes, then returns to his side. 

“Alright, Brasidas?” she asks, reaching out to touch his arm.

Brasidas just laughs. “Gods, I have missed this!” he says. 

“Good job, soldier,” she smiles.

“Good job?” he splutters. “We defeat the legendary Cyclops, and you proclaim it a ‘good job’?”

“What would you call it?” she asks.

“A feat for the ages!” Brasidas cries, gesturing at the fallen monster. “The fight of legends!” 

Kassandra shakes her head with a smile. 

He reaches out to clasp her shoulder, but he staggers on his leg and ends up crashing directly into her, her arms coming up to grasp his shoulders as his chest hits hers. Their faces are close enough that he can feel her exhalation of surprise against his lips. There is a tiny scar beneath her mouth that he never noticed before, a small line that cuts against the curve of her lips. 

He is struck by the urge to trace it with his own.

Instead, he shifts his arms to grasp her waist, stepping back slightly so he can spin her around in a circle. 

“Brasidas!” Kassandra exclaims breathlessly. “What are you doing?”

“Celebrating,” Brasidas smiles. "Is this not a moment for dance?"

“ _Maláka_ ,” Kassandra groans. “We do not have any music.”

“We have plenty of music!” Brasidas laughs. “We have the music of our hearts!”

“You say the most ridiculous things,” Kassandra mutters.

“Perhaps,” he says with a smile. “But perhaps I mean them. This _is_ a legendary achievement, a story that will be passed through the ages.”

Kassandra shakes her head slightly, but she doesn’t say anything. They’re no longer moving so rapidly, simply swaying in time to a rhythm that neither of them can hear. There’s something in the shape their bodies make that reminds him of that very first fight, the way they will always fall effortlessly in sync with one another, almost as though their hearts beat to the same rhythm. 

Her hair is a mess after the struggle with the Cyclops. Brasidas watches the loose strands flutter gently around her face. He is just thinking about reaching out to brush it from her forehead when she quirks her head to the side, fixing him with a sly grin. 

“Brasidas,” she says. “We are hardly even moving. I do not think you know how to dance.”

Brasidas glares at her with mock outrage.

“Don’t worry,” she smirks. “You are doing a _good job_.”

Brasidas throws back his head and laughs, and Kassandra grins. She takes a step back from him, picking up the artefact from the ground.

“Let’s go,” she says. “I have had enough of caverns.”

Her smile is bright in the darkness, and Brasidas, gods help him, will always turn towards the sun.

**********

The Minotaur is harder. 

Brasidas picks himself up from the ground. He has lost count of how many times the monster has knocked him down. It moves erratically, charging rapidly with its axe swinging wildly in its grip, and he is not fast enough to dodge it every time. He uses his shield to try and bear the brunt of the attack, to give Kassandra a chance to attack with her daggers, but he knows the Minotaur is wearing him down.

And the Minotaur knows it too, hunting him like a wolf that smells blood. Brasidas ducks beneath the swing of its axe, but as he spins around to strike another blow, the Minotaur rams him with its horns. Brasidas raises his shield in time to protect him from the worst of the strike, but the force of the blow sends him backwards, crashing against a nearby pillar. 

Just as the Minotaur lowers its head to charge again, he sees a dagger fly into its throat. The monster swings its head around rapidly, one of its horns butting against Kassandra’s shoulder. She lets out a sharp cry, but quickly swaps her second dagger to her right hand and drives it home between the Minotaur’s eyes.

Brasidas limps over to her as she pulls one of the horns from its head. It is hot and glowing in her hands, and she winces as she struggles to maintain a hold of it, her face tight with pain.

“Kassandra!” he calls.

“No!” she says. “Don’t touch me!” She shakes one more time, and raises her hands to reveal a small circular sphere.

“By the gods,” Brasidas says, taking a step towards her. “How did you do that?”

“I am not sure,” Kassandra says, looking at the artifact with surprise.

She had transformed precious metal into a different shape before his eyes. Like an alchemist, he thinks.

 _Like a god_ , his heart whispers.

He swallows. “Two down,” he says. 

Kassandra turns to look at him, wincing as she moves her shoulder. “Are you referring to the monsters or to us?” she asks.

Brasidas chuckles. “Both, perhaps. But we get to our feet once more - that thing will not.”

“First we have to get our feet out of here,” she groans. “I hope that thread is still there.”

They don’t talk much as they exit the labyrinth, both too exhausted and out of breath. When they finally reach the top, Brasidas sits down heavily on a rock, and Kassandra drops to her knees, wincing as she stows the artefact in her pack.

“How badly are you hurt?” Brasidas asks. “You took a heavy blow for me.”

“It is just the muscle,” Kassandra replies. “It will heal quickly.”

“Let me see,” he says. 

“It is fine,” she snaps.

“Kassandra,” he says. “I have spent years tending wounds on the battlefield. If there is something wrong, we need to know now, lest it get worse.”

She sighs, but she uncaps her cloak to bare her shoulders and moves to sit at his feet, leaning against his legs. He runs his hands gently along her shoulder, and then the other as a point of comparison.

“You will have a mighty bruise,” he says. “But I do not think it is broken.”

“I did tell you,” she says. She sighs and leans back against his leg, her eyes closed, her face tight with exhaustion.

His hands are still on her shoulders, and he shifts them slightly to begin rubbing small circles into her back.

“What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously. 

“I can feel the tension in your back,” he says. 

“Brasidas, we just killed the Minotaur,” she snaps. “Of course I am tense.”

“Stop being difficult,” he replies. “If I massage the muscles, it will give you some relief. We do this all the time, amongst soldiers.”

“Amongst soldiers,” she repeats. “Are you trying to protect my honour?”

“Ah yes, the legendary honour of the _misthios_ ,” Brasidas says dryly. 

Kassandra thumps his leg. “Oh, so I’m just a _misthios_ again, am I?”

Brasidas shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says. “Amongst…amongst friends, then.”

She cranes her head to look at him silently. There is a vulnerability in her eyes that he has never seen before, but she nods slowly.

He carefully moves her braid to her bruised shoulder and places his palms on her back. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he says, and he feels a small shiver underneath his hands.

He begins slowly kneading, pausing as Kassandra lets out a sharp hiss.

“Alright?” he asks, and she nods.

He continues to gently press and pull at her muscles, trying to ease the knots he can feel in her shoulders. His hands are calloused from years of sword fighting, and he wonders if they are rough and harsh against her skin. But he can feel the tension loosening as he slowly works over her back. And if the soft sighs she makes in the back of her throat are any indication, he must be doing something right. 

But they are doing nothing to lessen the tension that is slowly building in his own body, and he shifts awkwardly, thankful for the rock between him and Kassandra. 

He continues until his arms are sore and he can see Kassandra’s head begin to droop. 

“Kassandra?” he asks. “Are you falling asleep?”

“Mmph,” she mumbles, and he laughs.

“Come on,” he says. Draping her arm over his shoulder, he helps her walk over to where they had set up camp. Just as he is trying to determine the best way to manoeuvre her to the ground, she leans against him heavily and his leg gives out, sending them crashing to the ground, Kassandra sprawled over his chest.

“Gods,” he mutters. “You’re heavy.”

Kassandra makes a muffled noise against his chest.

“You are doing this on purpose,” he mutters.

“Mmph,” she mumbles again.

“Fine,” he says. “But when you wake and your shoulders are knotted, do not expect another massage.”

Kassandra makes a soft noise but doesn’t say anything. He shifts slightly so he’s more comfortable, rolling Kassandra off him to lie against his side, her head on his chest.

He should really get up. But he is loathe to break this rare, precious moment of stillness. In the morning she will spin away from him once more: always moving, always fixed on the horizon, always seeking out the next job and the next fight. 

He should get up, he tells himself, but instead he falls asleep to the gentle sound of her breathing, and the steady rhythm of her heart beating against his own. 

**********

The Sphinx looks exactly like the legends say: the body of a lion, covered in feathers, yet with a woman’s face. A hissing snake curls around one side of its body.

Brasidas raises his shield slightly as Kassandra swears.

“Another challenger,” the Sphinx says. “No, two challengers! How refreshing.”

“What are you?” Kassandra asks.

“I am the guardian of truth and knowledge,” the Sphinx replies. “I guard a great treasure.”

“The artifact,” Brasidas says softly.

The Sphinx shifts its gaze to him. “Is that why you are here?”

“It does not belong here,” Kassandra says. “I have been asked to bring it home.”

“Interesting,” the Sphinx replies. “If you wish to seize this power, you must answer my riddles wisely.”

Kassandra groans. “Where is that _maláka_ Sokrates when you need him?” she mutters.

The Sphinx begins to recite her questions. _“Never resting, never still; moving slowly from hill to hill; it does not walk, run or trot; all is cool where it is not._ ”

Kassandra looks at Brasidas. He knows the answer to this - something that moves rapidly across the world, making it feel all the cooler in its absence. “The sun,” he says softly, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Kassandra. 

The Sphinx continues her questions. _“What is always old and sometimes new; never sad, sometimes blue; never empty, but sometimes full; never pushes, always pulls?"_

Brasidas pauses, and frowns. He opens his mouth to repeat the riddle to himself but the words die on his lips when Kassandra reaches across to touch his arm. “The moon,” she says. 

Brasidas almost misses the final riddle, fixed by the intent look in Kassandra’s eyes. 

_“What can bring back the dead; make you cry, make you laugh, make you you; is born in an instant, yet lasts a lifetime?”_

“Memory,” Kassandra says, turning away from Brasidas to look back as the Sphinx lets out an unholy screech, before disintegrating in front of their eyes.

Kassandra prizes something out of the back of the Sphinx’s head, something hot and glowing. Once again, he watches as she turns it into a sphere with simply the power of her hands.

“That was easier than I thought,” Kassandra replies, sliding the artifact into her pack. “All those years of talking to Socrates were worth something, after all.”

“You did not even need me,” Brasidas smiles.

“Of course I did,” she says. “We solved them together, did we not?”

He had a different answer to that final riddle, a soft syllable curling around his tongue, but he will not tell Kassandra that. 

Brasidas knows the stories, the legends that tell of what happens when a mortal loves a god.

They never end well.

**********

The Medusa is nearly the end of them both.

He had watched with shock as it turned Bryce to stone in front of his eyes. He and Kassandra exchange a horrified glance.

“The pillars,” he says, and she nods.

They pick up a rhythm, as they always do: darting out from behind their pillars to slash and duck, Brasidas using his shield as a distraction while Kassandra looses arrows with her impeccable aim. But with every gaze he blocks, he can feel his shield growing heavier in his arms, and he knows it will not be long until it is nothing but leaden stone.

“I think the monster is tiring!” he calls to Kassandra.

“About fucking time!” she yells back.

“One last attack should do it,” he says. “On three.”

She nods, gripping her daggers in her hands. He can see the exhaustion in her face, and he knows she needs every advantage he can give her. 

“One,” he calls, then steps out from behind the pillar. 

He raises his shield, crouching behind it as the Medusa turns her gaze on him. He can feel his shield growing heavier and heavier in his hands. He has seconds left.

 _But if death is to take me_ , Brasidas thinks, _then let it be by the side of a god._

The heavy stone falls from his hands, and he instinctively raises them to his face to uselessly protect himself from the Medusa’s gaze. But it never comes. Instead, he hears a strangled cry, and he raises his eyes to see Kassandra on the Medusa’s back, her knife against its throat.

The monster drops to the ground, and Kassandra tumbles from its back, rolling to a crouch.

“Brasidas!” she cries, running to his side. “You stupid, stubborn _maláka_! What were you thinking?”

“I was providing a distraction,” he says. “It worked, did it not?”

“It was a risk,” she snaps.

“It was a gamble,” he corrects. “That is how we wage war.”

“I told you,” she says. “I have taken enough from you. I will not take your life as well.”

“And I told you,” Brasidas snaps. “It was, and always will be, freely given.”

“You cannot just give me something like that!” Kassandra cries. 

“Kassandra,” he begins, but she turns away, crouching down to look at a single red flower growing from the soil. 

“ _Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us_ ,” she says sadly.

Brasidas comes to stand behind her. He places his hand gently on her shoulder.

“I do not understand,” she says. “Bryce must have known something was wrong. Why could she not just wait for us to return?”

Brasidas pauses. “Some things are precious enough to risk everything for,” he says gently. 

“Ah, but I am just a _misthios_ ,” she says bitterly. “The only precious thing I know is gold.”

“Kassandra,” he says again, but she cuts him off.

“Your shield,” she says, looking down at the stone shield at his feet.

“It is no matter,” he says. “This was the last monster, yes? Then I suppose I do not need it any more.”

Kassandra frowns at the shield, refusing to meet his eyes. “If you insist,” she says. “Let us leave this place.”

Brasidas follows her, unable to shake the feeling that he has failed some test, or given the wrong answer to a question he did not know he was being asked. 

**********

Brasidas sits by the water on the island of Thera, watching the moon rise slowly over the ocean and the waves lap against the shore. Kassandra has been inside the temple for hours. She had told him this was something she must do alone, and that she would return when she had delivered the artifacts. 

So he waits. 

(He would wait a thousand years, if she asked him to. He would not think twice.)

He is just beginning to doze when he hears footsteps behind him, and he turns to see Kassandra, her face troubled and drawn.

“Well?” Brasidas asks, getting to his feet stiffly. “What happened?”

“He offered me a great reward,” Kassandra replies.

“Ah, the dream of the _misthios_!”

Kassandra looks away across the water. “I did not take it.”

“What? Why not?” He runs a hand through his hair. “If we fought all those monsters for nothing…”

“No,” Kassandra says. “It was not that kind of a treasure.” 

“Then what was it?” he asks.

“It was…” she sighs. “He offered me power,” she says. “Immense power.”

“The power of the gods?” 

“Something like that,” she says.

“And you did not take it?”

“No,” she says. “No, he asked me to choose wisely. And I thought of damn Sokrates,” she laughs. “And I thought that maybe the most important face is the one that we choose.”

Brasidas looks at her with confusion.

“I have seen the way you look at me,” she says. “Like I am something out a great story. But I am not - I am just a _misthios_. But that is what I choose to be.”

“Kassandra,” he says, but she cuts him off.

“I do not want the rewards of the gods, because I think…I think I have something more precious already.”

Her eyes are very dark in the moonlight as she takes a step towards him, placing her hand on his arm.

He shifts out of her grasp, turning away.

“Do you not what this?” she asks. “Is a _misthios_ not enough?”

“Gods, Kassandra,” he says. “How could you even think that?”

“So why do you hesitate?” she asks. He recognises his own words, the question he had asked her outside of the party in Athens.

He sighs. “You could have the world at your fingers, if you wished it,” he says. “You can soar to heights no one has ever touched.”

Kassandra shakes her head. “You say the most ridiculous things,” she says, raising her hand to his cheek.

“And I…” Brasidas continues, “I am an old, injured soldier who-”

“No,” she interrupts, her face lighting up in a broad smile. “You are my shield,” she says, before leaning forward and kissing him. 

She strokes her hand along his cheek as she slides her tongue along his lips. He groans slightly, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss, drinking in Kassandra’s soft sigh as his tongue meets hers. He slides his hands around her waist and up her back, pulling her flush against him, and she tangles her hands in his hair. He kisses the scar beneath her lips reverently, then trails kisses down her jaw and along her neck.

“So,” she says with a smirk, pulling back to look at him. “About that reward.”

“By the gods,” he mutters, but he allows her to push him down onto his bedroll, climbing into his lap as she does so.

They make quick work of one another’s armor. Brasidas kisses every part of her skin he uncovers: the weathered skin on her arms, the delicate skin of her neck, the soft skin of her breasts. Kassandra lets out a breathless laugh as his beard grazes her skin.

“Kassandra,” he asks with a smile. “Are you ticklish?”

“No,” she says, but she gasps as he trails his fingers down her side, squirming in his lap. He groans as she accidentally rubs herself against him, retaliating by sliding his fingers against her sides again. As she wriggles desperately, he takes the opportunity to grab her hips and flip them over.

“That’s cheating,” she laughs.

“That was a gamble,” he says, and begins to slowly kiss his way down her stomach.

“Gods, Brasidas, will you hurry up?” she gasps, tugging slightly on his hair.

He drags his tongue slowly down her navel. “I would take forever, if I could,” he murmurs against her skin.

“We do not have forever,” she says, and when he raises his head, he sees her eyes shining with a delight he does not quite understand. 

“Well, then," he smiles, feeling her shiver beneath him as he strokes his hands along her thighs. "Would you like me to finish the job?”

She doesn’t answer, just raises her hips slightly. He takes the hint, lowering his head to lick a hot stripe up her thigh, and she moans as he hooks her leg over his shoulder to give him better access, pressing his nose against her folds.

It is not that different from the battlefield. He knows the rhythm of her body: how to move with her, not against her; how to carefully build up a steady pattern; how to crest that final wave to victory. His lips feel warm against her skin, and he licks and sucks until she clenches around him, gasping his name.

He kisses his way slowly up her body, and she laughs breathlessly, pulling him down to lick the taste of herself from his lips.

“Was that a sufficient reward, my _misthios_?” Brasidas murmurs.

“Hmmm,” Kasandra says. “I think the best rewards are shared.” 

“Is that so?” Brasidas smiles. “Like Sokrates said - the best things in life are never just one sided?”

“Ugh,” Kassandra groans. “You want to debate philosophy now?”

Brasidas just laughs, and Kassandra takes advantage of his distraction to flip them over once more. She wraps her legs around his waist, angling her hips, and he slides in smoothly with a groan. He clutches her back as she moves against him, her head thrown back, her face shining with joy.

And as Brasidas feels her heart beating against his own, he thinks that this, more than anything, might be what it means to touch the gods.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Sumi for the 2019 Fandom 5k exchange, who asked for a story in which Brasidas lives. That is all I ever wanted from this game and it was a delight to be able to fix it for you - I hope you enjoy the happy ending.
> 
> The story was also partially inspired by my frustration with the Atlantis ending - you cannot tell me that Kassandra, after all those years of searching for her family, has to watch everyone she loves die while she lives on forever? No thank you, Ubisoft.
> 
> The title comes from "You Will Be Found" from _Dear Evan Hansen._


End file.
